Warm whispers my lips/down smooth meadows of your neck/sweet familiar bed.

Jibber jabber gobbledee-goo
tittle tattle engenues
verbosely nosey Velcro verbs
sibilant smacks or lips a purse
wealthy whacks stickball whips
no tweet or talk but mailbox spit
gnawing down our chews of cud
converse with street rubber tongues
pinky-swore on Bazooka gum
summer wonder learning none
we Schwin & Huffy bike the day
child hood friends what else to say?
especially at that age...
Teeny tiny laughter dust
we race like Del Mar champion studs
no babble trouble wordy sting
our Super 8 remembering
"look no handle bars!"
our arms for wings
young ole boys California Kings...

Get in a last word, since silence is golden,
then in the end all that is spoken
betrays the honest truths
the value of sharing a meal
sustenance to feel
fulfilled, now that talk is cheap...

Be more profound to take me aback
like a gust of wind through hallowed doors
to the hollows of burial and sage and prayers
where subservience of love
denies the body of its flesh
to please the ephemeral ghosts...

yes, tell me how deep your adoration's lashes
if all the deserts we've traversed
meant as much as the time of my worth
will it bleed--those words for me?
Are your words as bread or food
uplifting in the roots of you?

I am no shepherd nor are you a herd of sheep,
a flock unable to fly without a mind to think
I am just another king like  any like you
the last word at the rabble
a dying flame from the candles drinking wine,
beneath the sky of olives and infinite eyes
here with the stain of un-seeing
in search for a well that will not dry
for a familiar day of kind of rain...


Tell me what's a good word without one
made   by ****** hand of man,
one that is like music / laughter
a celebration's feast
teach me instead,

and please don't preach...

What worth is made when words are bade
like a trader of slaves to whom he's paid,
or a master in his own house at a maid?
Such business is moot in its absolutes,
                 a kiss on the cheek without a word
multiplicitious and astute
obvious in the eyes of company kept
                  brother in the dark I heard wept

A tree in shadows hangs the rotten fruit

Ananke
dangles like most words must do
from the mouth must taste as dung
often done -- invisible daggers to the heart
untruths
then less and less of brotherly caress

nor some kind of familiar can be found
no infinite wonder

the one and only one

You,
whom I have been
preparing to be made new,
to wake from the pain of this blister
these mirages we hunger and run to,
don't speak what I want to know
I already have seen the final show
and words are only words
unheard by the deaf heavens
selective with their ears to cherubs glee
what is found when the One above
or any of the many stars that see
our globe in desert blizzards,

ill regard as plenty as snow
nothing of the kind, or good in kind,
what word equals

the image of everlasting
Oh
just a sip ...?

There are only so many words
in a universe of infinite light
language can be made like jars of clay

simple like breaking (of hearts and day)

if eyes were speaking through our tears
how loud must we shout "Love"
before there's nothing that's enough
to keep us thusly
home not just merely
an EYE to clear / and still, I am
with you                                         here.

Push away the old world words
that once poured into my cup,
I want home to be as heaven is esteemed
take this cup away from me
blood of transcendant poetry...

Is it insomnia
when I don't care for sleep?

The sort of sleep that is belligerent
interruptions at each half past
in the middle of every hour,
intervals of interlopers
awoken by invisible passersby
floating enemies striking me
with the hatred of their kinesis
cerebral lightning at my heart
or attempts at my suffocation
as I wake to a coughing start,
intruders invading my dream mind
as well as its peace

anything that would hurt me
they revel in my breaking,
I can hear the clicking of laughter
of teeth...

Deserts and all our cities
should have crickets,
yet Vegas feels like its been dying
the quiet now replete
no chirp of the lucky bugs
nor busying of bees with their buzz
rather its the fizzle of neon panic
the beatitude of cheats
the machinations of gamblers' defeat

or sometimes mostly
this deep in the twilight
a swarm of Ninjas, Suzuki, Kawasaki roars
toward their kabuki foot rubs
a twenty gets you a dub
rub you long time
for an hour behind red doors

Try to spank myself to sleep
if not to exhaustion,
but I can still hear the distant piercing
screaming
of latter days & soilent green
the secret war as alien is to any sound
sleep.

They look like people
we look like meat,
the living dead
their sake's flesh
all torn away and beat
up like faithful lovers that creep
seduced by the sluice
of the street / symphonies,
of rocket ship Discovery

Can't turn the volume down
in the black of night
when my mind's eye
is behind a veil
in the dark of 2:22
(in recovery)
and still the aliens
wretchedly wail...

whilst i'm
slumming in attempts at slumbering,
the greys are watching
humans lumbering
               and *******
two twenty two
in the dim
twilight
morning...

Concrete sidewalks

Tagged and littered with human stains

Walking through landmines

My nervous legs are close to dashing

The lane where its gutters meet the streets...

The river of Time

Rages rapid or sluggishly slow;

Undulates each birth's decay - the ebbs & floes,

Awhile fathers of men ride your very tides

Upon their aged faces longingly, mortality cannot hide...


(Time.)

Akimbo cacti
by the scenic highway roads
flail in Hell's hot sun.

Nudist Beach Cruiser
Down Rollerblade Jogger's Lane.
Ease of Summer's roll...

Such buttery lips,
Silken creams wrapping our tongues,
My *Patisserie.

There are stories that are written down, carved in stone, others are told  out loud or made for song, and some still linger--painted on walls of mountains, caves. Wallpaper tapestries, depictions of a good day's successful hunt. While the communal fires and bones have turn to dust, a good day stands still in that ****** snap shot.

From wars of old and origin tales, there are those narratives passed down as legacy, heritage of families, the wealth of lessons through time, reminders and warnings, and glories of victories against enemies faded away in defeat. How sometimes those tribal memories' recollection instill or motivate into action--change, or rites of passage (whether successfully or doomed) the undulation of life carries on, and finds a way.

Yet the stories that keep and hold our passions' interests, retold many times to quench our hearts, these are the ones more profound and rich of moral grounds, full of fertile meaning. Poetry of feelings spoken word of theater, out in the wide howling wilderness, while the wind becomes the wolf at the moon. We are moved by and by, as well as the soaring soul within. We learn to love those ancestral ghosts of yore, resurrected in the beat of drum, the pantomime of sons as their fathers, the rising embers and shadows running from the flames. Still, not all can carry the past or the details that fog ... while our rivers rush the seasons by.

In many languages and lives  of every breathing passersby, there are also sparks of moments brief as an evening sky's meteor shower, rainfall of quicksilver streaks of light. Once and awhile there is awe and wonder, if witnessed by mindful eyes and held still in the same place where dreams awake in our sleep, has no need of script or reasons why, it is simple and beloved. The great and grandest of One story is gleaned, witnessed and recognized. The constellations brighten and seem to coalesce, the Universe opens its infinite arms, its vast lungs, and with one sigh within this witness, exhalations, in recognizing a connection with breath and firmament, the miracles of Life, cosmos & Light...

If only briefly like a flash of atmospheric fire from a meteorite in death-fall, the Infinite and Absolute now borne of proof -- without a word to convince or purchase. Words and like Texas Tea pollutes so heavily the kind and flight, thickly darkly removes what thine eyes doth and must see.

And as an avid lover of poetic justice & epics & heroes from mystic times, I keep close my heart's affection, since all love stories continue ever after to shine...

I see you
in all the dots and lines
diamonds and geometry
alive cosmic symmetry
I want to be
a speck of one letter in
your vast alphabet,
just to be exhaled
in the breadth of your true story
the shrapnel casualty or
pawn sacrificed for your glory
I want only you
to remember by...
And a No One like me
made alive even in death
in all your divine skies
full of Story...
Oh Goddess, my goddess,
what magnificence and wonder
are in mine eyes...

Then there are stories in silence and unrequited, replied inside:

Love begets like white lightning... Electric veins alive... Glowing tapestries of every life...  Story...

Check out the ink,
authentic as a groupie giving it up
each memorable stain
Taints / scars
"see this one, that was the time...
on the road, the streets of concrete and black"

waking up with something missing
another concert and back
stage passing out
green rooms become lucky charms
                                      "magically delicious"
when molly and 'cid drown out
the loud self hatred howl
the piercing sounds like snow on a telly
made of wood / in the hollow
of the skull
screaming fans
get giving head
(another Grateful Dead
teddy tats
le mort - with top-hats)

Check out the ink on them cats
'cuz its cool to hit it
And just like that,
they're just like bruises
Rorschach birth mark
Skin art muses
like permanent stickers
Yang and yin
punch bug & liquor
Business inc.

quarter machine
bouncy ***** and shiny things--
Smiley face!            
Have a nice day!
Happy colors cover up
To hide the deeper pain that dont hurt
but slowly softly kills
somewhere inside
where somethings
gone missing...
(now they swallow pills)

...

Like plumes of flamboyant flocks
Birds of dying paradise
and schools of shimmering fish,
Anima and abyss
Inside this living planet, all
makes for interesting documentary
nature shows
            since nuture blows
Goes to show
Some guardians using
back of the hand
belt / buckle / switch

Yo peeps pay close attention...
Check out the ink
swats and ****
                   wears wife beaters
and his chick in the summers
wears faux
furs of mink...
***** on roller skates without a rink
expert skill sets for Sonic
always runaways
drive by drive-thru,
So cool I'll call 'em Culo...
Wouldn't you?


*(In their natural habitats, the group and packs
and ****** of crows, find one another
Lushious... candy color coded hides...
like the wilde-beast their multitudes progress
run migratory trails anywhere from the law
or their own **** making a mess...
Welcome
Mutual Of Omaha's Wild kingdom
in permanent ink ... stains...
memorable times...               wasted)

hmph... where are the open mics?

This coffee-bean bag city abound

with eclectic fusions of wireless access

enter-the-net -abilities

Kenya to Columbia / slow, dark roasts...

and Napa Valley vineyards

intermingling

at Cream...

How oddly bright, surrounded by glass

windows--like discovery of x-ray vision,

through clear walls i see how packed

like an iMac convention it is

inside...

   Poetry readings: Yahoo local search directed us here,

barista-scented alcoholic webmasters

thin-legged tables laid out like a life-sized

chess board--us three white rooks performing

black bishop moves to the cashier;

curious like George as to where

in Carmen-cool-San Diego,

in this glowing rubix cubed place;

   where in the fluoresent skin of Comp-USA borne

peoples of the web, where

where oh where's the poetry?

Reading Vista-windows rather than obsolescent-absolutes

of books by Keats

or obsessive-compulsive Koontz...

   Though bright and machine-warm, Cream

felt metallic-shiny, slick as plastic; conversations

with an electric hiss

rather than a hum of heart-beats and laughter

where's the **** poetry??

   the readings?

a prolific geek or Hemingway refined older men

on a single microphone;

turn-table-tales in rhyme

on a platform made by the local grind

college theatre teckies (staple-gunned and glued)...

where are those poets?

   those spoken-word-wisdoms, writers

performing, even in their Goth-blacks, even in

their Seattle angst of cordoruoys or dock martins;

forget Starbucks, leave behind Jitterz,

the Expresso Roma is the poetry of coffee

no enterprise

can replicate

duplicate the unique...

   sadly i must concede, the spoken word

and poetic fluffers are a dying breed; as far as

i can web-surf, no place

houses them any longer, no more

do they sprinkle their pixie-dust of verse

or prose, mosaics,

fantastics of floral or funk

imagery and emotional

stark revelations of discovery...

   sadly--it is the day's turning of a page;

***** is the word,

adverb to lost horizons, i am

a dinosaur of the mess-no-beatnik-era,

"poet-a-sore-is-rest"

deep thoughts' ooze now the blood of

{fingers snapping} history

"yeah, man, cool...outta sight"

and i'm not yet extinct;

i am a teradactyl with so much sky

soon without a place to land, / below

crash into the matrix sea--Cream pixelates my woes...

communication has become a plastic factory

to Japan, and Europe, my inner "screeeeech!"

"where is the poetry?!"

Let us run to the beach,
Through the night's navel, lichenous
Inflated by escape and something new
For just the rush / the sensation

Like bodies aloft from kiss
the brevity of laughter
Of youth / full / of mischief.

We'll leave the night a peeking eye
while in the meditation of surfers
Early sparring with willful morning  
Waves / puppets of gravity & moon

So wax upon fingers of great monsoons
Should the tides ride high it's might
and fly to god's white laughter too soon
At least we've glean the world between
With wings of sunkist sailing heights
Dreams unfurled in gold morning light

Hurl toward the awe of love for life
Completely free as one with chi,
Let this be an ode, an unscripted history
a mandarin and blue backdrop scene

And I will be perched on the shore
Shakespeare's heartfelt pen / pining ardor
Adoring the balconies and open doors
of such romances / daring devils for more

Tho' a grain of sand to everything
Now just a set of eyes

Audience for the world and skies

Belisimo !

I applaud as fish and man fly
Nod as the sun sets the stars to night
As in twilight to midnight
As the moon smiles

Bravo!

Through the belly of the unseen
We have crawled
Now we are in the poetry of awe
Watch onlooker as the stage curtains
Paints it's strokes
Blood rose clouds and deep
Blues from burning
Pinks

Magic show in a wink

This deserves a standing ovation
I lift both hands high
This must be love
I cannot deny

Some kind of wonder
Full of infinite and muse
All epic and classic
Watched without shoes...

In all these things
Time and motion
(In a seashell)
Listen to the ocean.